Run in Circles
by I Know Your Name
Summary: Schuldig encounters Belial outside of sanity, going through one illusion or fantasy after another. Obsession. Possession. Telepaths. Demons. Crossover with Angel Sanctuary. BelialxSchuldig.


Tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap

_Tip_.

_**Tap**_

It was difficult to watch her stand _sliding _there on the concrete floor, flickering in the corner of his eye as someone - something - he could see straight ahead was moving.

Straight ahead.

In the corner of his eye.

He couldn't _quite _see her. His fingers curled tightly over the edge of the table. It was smooth and hard and cold and dry against his hot fingers and if he had been looking - _if he had been able to see _- he would have seen it as steel. He wasn't looking. He couldn't quite see her.

It was as if she wasn't real. It was as if she was another nightmare. Another illusion. Another dream that he hadn't dreamt, another thought that he hadn't thought but was more real to him than his own.

His fingers clenched over the curving edge. He closed his eyes. Breathed in, smelled something faint, moist. It wasn't sweet and soft, didn't waft but **stank**, stank of something hot, thick, and metallic, blood and chocolate and oranges. Nothing sweet. Just hot and cold and wet and dry, no gray, just opposites. Only opposites.

She still wasn't there.

She was still there.

The table turned over.

The crash was loud and clashing with a _bang_**thump**_**clatter**_. Steel met concrete, scraped and whined and then stilled. It hurt his ears. Made them ring and then tingle.

He didn't notice. Dim light and rising dust (_the floor had been thick with it, thick grey smudging stuff that choked him_) blocked his vision. Prevented him from seeing her, even from the corner of his eye. Blinded him so completely he forgot what sight was.

It wasn't even **black.**

Just grey.

He hated it.

Had to _move_ then, had to stumble up from the squeaking chair and hear it crash to the ground, trip over the table he couldn't see and fall. Cut his knees - no trousers to tear, not _here_ -, scraped his hands. Whoever had laid the foundation had done a piss-poor job. It was rough. Pitted. _Felt ugly _beneath his groping fingers.

He could smell it again.

Just there, just a few feet away, maybe. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn't a few feet. Maybe he wasn't the one smelling it. Maybe this was just a dream.

...thought too much.

Sliver of red and black in the corner of his eye. Flicker of threading white, something like a mask that wasn't worn on a face.

Burst of color.

It was so intense it was disorienting, and he staggered, reaching out for something that _wasn't grey _- now **black** - so many colors that _they all turned to black it was beautiful he couldn't stand it it was blinding him_

Fingertips brushed against warm silk. No color.

Nails curved into it and latched on. Something thick and hot came under them. No color.

Two steps forward and there was more silk sheathing something hard. Something burning cold and hot at once, something trembling and still. He shoved himself up against it. Pressed hard, hands and arms and legs capturing the thing aggressively. No escape.

No support.

It hurt to fall back to the concrete. Even on top of it - whatever it was (_where was she!?!?_) his skin scraped and bruised on the jagged rock. He tore his skin on that ill-made foundation.

Still couldn't let go.

It struggled, hissing, then snarled and bit and _**God**_ but the pain was the clearest thing he'd felt yet in this damned fucking grey pit with no ceiling or walls or anything but a floor and a table and chair and **IT**, whatever it was.

Blood.

He buried his face in its neck and clung, trying to pry from it a taste of _rushing_**crashing**_**buzzing**_life to prove that it was real. Needed to touch to prove it, needed to touch it know that it was real and he was alive and this wasn't all of dream waking death or someone's fucked up fantasy. He needed to know that he was real. He had to know that **he **_wasn't a dream, wasn't a product of his own imagination _was. That he existed as himself. That he was autonomous and real and this wasn't a fantasy. It wasn't a fantasy it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't

"One wishes to know if one has offended with oneself."

..._sunde_.

Tip tip tap tip tap _SMASH _**CLATTER **_**BANG **__fucking __**girls **_it was _her_, _**God**_and he could _hear -_

_Snap. Clack. Clatter. Hear the rhythm __**shatter**__**know **__the Mad Hatter, a staccato beat on a Berlin street at __**night **__-_

- come to think of it, this _was_ a street, he could see stained brick rising up around him, could smell gasoline and sweat and something sickening frying in deep fat. Chatter of people, crush of voices (_out loud, nothing in his head, no sound at __**all**_) quick and rippling slow. Heard the squeal of tires and harsh rumble of engines, then a startled yelp, a door slamming and a dog barked loudly.

No more grey.

Lots of colors. No black.

He blinked. He was straddling her. He was pinning her. His hair brushed her face and she wasn't moving. Wasn't struggling anymore.

Something smelled of rotting eggs.

A street lamp flickered and a pair of grey moths fluttered around it.

Grey.

What the **fuck** what the fuck what the fuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck **WHAT THE FUCK **he was shaking violently, barely able to prevent himself from collapsing, unable to keep a grip on her wrists. His knees were spreading and he was slipping, slipping and

There were long fingers touching his face, stilling his shaking. _Calm please calm, can't have an attack here can't break down here no, oh no, just cling harder, force her, catch her make her break her she wasn't so elusive she couldn't be caught __**no one was **__damnit not women nor angels nor even __**fucking demons **__he_

"Is one's play too much for you?"

...play.

A play. A play. A _play_ he shifted, she shifted with him and she wasn't on the ground anymore, no not anymore up up up _up high __**God **__he sounded __**drunk **__maybe he'd what had he been was he _He bent suddenly and kissed her hard on the mouth. Almost viciously. She wasn't breakable. Wasn't fragile either, no need to worry _little boy little boy come home with __**me **__tonight _no need at _all _she was so strong he was breaking himself on her corners and _maybe, just maybe _he was going about this the wrong way.

Sudden slide of hands and he thrust into her, melting and then yielding to the claws she called hands, allowing himself to be buffetted and battered at turns until he was exhausted. Spent himself entirely on her, panting, gripping, thrusting, yielding _it was different so __**small**_not talking not saying anything, just creating a rhythm out of tune with the harsh clashing of noises on the street.

She wasn't tired.

Her eyes were just as bright, fingers just as firm and knowledgeable on his flesh as when he had first found her and mistaken her for an it. His angel. So strong. Such a a crumbling pillar of corruption.

Up. Down. Up down up down up down up down up down up down up down up down up down up down up

Black.

Soft and warm and safe suddenly, holding someone curled against his chest. White and pink with thick smothering comforters. Some fat pillows. Skin meeting skin and bringing with it a reassuring thrum of warm familiar thoughts. It was dry, warm, and comfortable instead of hot, wet, and desperate. No pain. No pleasure. Just soothing, peace, calm, quiet, blue roses in a pretty pot against a white wall. Black hair spread over the covers, a sweet face childish in repose. Schuldig kissed her forehead absently.

He couldn't help but wonder if it had all been a dream.


End file.
